Lost Girl
by onceuponamirror
Summary: The princess is 9 years old the day she disappears. Emma is 18 years old the day she leaves the orphanage with no past, and no future. Two conmen (mercenaries, really), a nosy twelve year old, and a few flying monkeys later, she finds herself poised to impersonate the lost princess. If only they had any idea. CS, later OQ.
1. Prologue

Princess Emma is nine years old the day she disappears.

To this day, the only witness accounts come from the frantic and trembling words of party guests, who still swear everything just happened so fast, they don't know _what_ they saw.

The one thing everyone can agree on, however, is how it began.

The grand hall is light brightly, the musicians are loud, and the dancing is joyous. The young princess dances on the feet of her father until he picks her up and throws her into the air, spinning as he catches her. Her laughter rings out like a little bell, filling the ballroom.

The princess is still laughing when the music stops.

Slowly, the king lowers her onto the floor, worriedly glancing over his shoulder to where his wife sits on the throne.

Purple plumes of smoke begins to snake through the room, over the feet of dancers and up the walls. It moves leisurely, but with purpose, as if seeking something out.

"_Charming_," comes the queen's low, warning voice. "She's—"

Suddenly, with a loud, deafening crack, the smoke quickly rolls to the center, morphing into a human shape. Moments later, the clouds reveal a stately woman with bright, red lips and flaming hair that clash violently with the green color of her skin. She clasps her hands together, flicking her gaze around innocently.

"Well, well, _well_, my pretties, don't tell me you started without me."

"You're not welcome here," Snow shouts, rising from the throne, fists curling.

The witch sighs, seemingly burdened. "I figured as much. But that's never stopped me before." She then uncurls her hands, turning her palms to the ceiling. Flames spark within them, and she sends one of the fireballs into a painting. The party guests scream, ducking out of the way.

"_Leave them alone!_"

The woman rolls her head towards the direction of the voice, her eyes slowly trailing downwards when there isn't anyone at eye level. The princess stands with her back straight, fists balled, green eyes wide and enflamed. "Oh, my, you are precious. A pity," the witch laughs, lining her palm up for another attack.

Charming dives for his daughter, just barely knocking her out of the fireballs way. "You have to run, Emma, go," he whispers, pushing her to her feet.

"I won't leave you!" She screams, tears pricking painfully at the corners of her eyes.

The witch cackles, throwing her head back as she rises to the ceiling, a ladder of purple smoke beneath her. Charming balks, watching the destruction rain from the witch's fingers. He glances over his shoulder, where his wife has gathered with the Royal Guard, their arrows and swords at the ready. "Emma," he whispers, staring into the wide eyes of his daughter. "You have the birthday present your mother gave you earlier?"

Emma fumbles at her dress pocket, reaching for the ring with the emerald green stone. She closes her grip around it, and it pulses in her palm, warm and soothing. She nods as her father reaches forward to brush the stray blonde hairs from her eyes. "Then you will always find us, as long as you carry it with you. Now, go find Johanna, and get out of here!"

He nudges her out of his arms and watches her slowly back away, casting him one last, fearful glance before turning and darting towards the kitchens. He swivels on his heel, and unsheathes his sword.

* * *

Emma never makes it to the kitchens. A boy with scruffy black hair intercepts her, blocking the passageway. She recognizes him as one of Johanna's kitchen boys. _Killian_, she thinks. "It's not safe, Princess," he yells, reaching for her hand. "The corridors are overrun with the witch's flying beasts!"

"I have to find Johanna," Emma says, her voice breaking as more human screams mingle with vicious, animalistic screeching.

"There's no time, come with me," the boy hisses, leading her down another passageway. "You can escape through the servant's entrance."

She nods, letting him lead her, one hand gripped tightly in his, the other in her pocket, clasped around her mother's ring. Ducking through turns Emma never even knew existed, they run for a few moments until breaking through a door disguised as a painting. It leads them to a small hallway with another door at the end of it. They dash towards it, and fling it open. Like sealing a vacuum, the screaming inside the castle immediately disappears as Killian pushes the secret door closed.

They step into the winter night, their breaths hot before them, the snow crunching beneath their feet.

"What now?" Emma whispers.

"We—" His eyes dart up suddenly, widening as a black silhouette fills the moon, followed by the same shrieking from before. "—Run!"

The flying creature swoops down, chasing them as the two break into a sprint. They make for the pond, just frozen over, knowing that's the fastest way to the castle bridge.

The animal swoops down in front of them, landing with a sickening crunch, it's talons digging into the ice. Slowly, it barrels towards them, pulling back its lips to reveal long, protruding canines wider than her finger. Dimly, Emma recognizes the creature as a monkey.

It crawls forward, not noticing the widening fractures beneath its paws. Killian does, and he reaches for Emma's hand once more. Before he can get out his warning, however, the ice breaks, pulling the monkey down into the water. It scrambles for a moment, desperately reaching for something to hold onto, almost swiping Killian's ankle out from under him. Emma pulls him back just in time, and the monkey disappears into the icy depths.

For a moment, all is still.

Then, with another deafening crack followed by a fissure that begins to run across the length of the pond, the ice begins to break into great chunks. Grasping Killian's hand tightly, Emma darts across the ice, the splinters in the ground hot on their feet. They just barely make it to the pond's edge, not allowing themselves to stop running even after they reach the gardens. They have to make it to the castle bridge. Maybe if Emma can make it to her godmother's house…

They sprint all the way across the bridge, past the abandoned gates, past the parked carriages and into the market, where there's just as much mayhem as inside the castle. The witch must've hit the town beforehand. Monkeys hang off rooftops, chasing after citizens, screeching up to the moon.

Someone barrels towards them, pulling Emma and Killian apart. Her hand suddenly feels so cold without his there, but the other still grips the ring tightly, as if her life depends on it. "Killian!" She screams, people pushing her farther and farther back into the crowd. "Killia—"

One last push sends Emma falling backwards, her head making contact straight into the corner of a wagon. Her vision clouds, and her world turns black.

_You will always find us._

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**even though i'm shit at multichapter, i AM considering doing just that with this. wondering where regina is? who the other con man is? what happened to snow and charming?**

**it won't be a very long fic, but i have some plans. but also you can't hold me to this because i have a finicky muse and commitment issues.**

**but reviewing will definitely encourage an update.****_ ;)_**


	2. The Woodcarver

"—And when you hit the market, find Ishmael's fish cart. He'll sort you out a job down at the docks," the woman barks to Emma's back.

Sighing, she raises one hand high over head and slips through of the high, iron-wrought gate. "Yeah, I'll just do that," she mumbles to herself, sneaking one last look at the orphanage before closing the gate behind her. Emma knows she and the matron have the same thought running through their minds: _Good riddance_.

She gives her shoulders a little shake, fastening her coat all the way up to her chin. It's a scrappy, patched, oversized cloak, but at least her favorite red and warm enough. Such is usually the way of her life, anyway; not much, but enough.

Emma marches forward into the snow, walking along the forest path for an hour or so before she comes to the fork she'd been told about. Left to the market, right to the larger village that borders the old castle.

"I know what left means," Emma murmurs to herself, reaching under her cloak to finger the green ring that hangs from her neck. A lifetime of scrubbing decks with that old weirdo Ishmael and his stupid whaling stories. "No thank you."

Still, she would be stupid to turn up a legitimate job, and a small voice reminds her one job doesn't mean a life sentence. She can leave whenever she wants, right? She'd had freedom before, and she knows the price of it all too well; sleeping in alleyways, stealing to get by-ignored and alone.

Despite the fact that she'd spent most of her life (as far as she knows, anyway; her memory only goes so far back) on the streets, the orphanage didn't offer much in terms of happiness, unsurprisingly. A bed, sure. Food, if you could call it that.

She at least had made one _real_ friend, for the first time in her life. The kind of friendship that isn't sealed by a handshake; a relationship not formed under the guise of _what's-in-it-for-me_. She'll definitely miss Henry, the brown-haired boy who'd immediately taken to Emma after she'd been brought in. She had tried her best to ignore him for the first month, knowing she only had a few years left in the orphanage and it was in both of their interests not to form bonds.

He hadn't listened. He kept coming around, kept pestering her, telling her stories of lands beyond her wildest dreams. Lands where carriages pulled themselves and water could appear on command; where everyone could wield magic in the palm of their hand.

Eventually, before she really knew what had happened, she had warmed to him. She slowly realized she was _his_ only friend, too. Other kids found him weird, his stories annoying.

Once she'd understood he was just as much of an outsider as she was, she let him worm his way into her life, even though it made her goodbyes all the more hard. He, oddly, hadn't seemed too emotional, just promised her they'd see each other again. (She'll later understand the phrase "hindsight is 20/20".)

Emma shakes her head, clearing her thoughts. She has to move forward with her life, even if that means putting Henry aside. Left, or right. _Make a decision_. Scrunching up her face, she squints one eye up at the sun. "You could give me a sign," she mumbles half-heartedly. "Whoever you are. Fate, a god. I don't know. Anything."

"You're not very picky."

The voice comes so closely behind that Emma yelps, and falls forwards into a snow pile. Groaning, she stands and turns around, brushing the snow from her cloak. "Henry! Kid, you scared me half to death."

He shrugs, clearly nonplussed. "I'm not the one talking to myself _alone_ in the middle of the forest. You wanna talk about scary?"

Emma sneers at him, before his presence clicks in her head. Her eyes widen. "Henry, what are you doing here? Did you—why the _hell_ would you follow me? We have to get you back, like _now_—"

She begins to push on his shoulders, but he won't budge. Instead, he wraps his hands around her wrists, looking at her hard in the eye. "I'm coming with you, Emma."

"Don't be stupid, kid," Emma growls, wriggling from his grip and backing away. "You're twelve. I'm eighteen. I can't take care of you. _I can't be a mother_."

"You don't have to be," Henry says quickly, following her closely. "Just my friend."

Her hand flies to her brow, pinching it. She slowly turns, blowing out her breath. "Okay, then as your _friend_, I'm telling you to go back to the orphanage. Where you're safe."

"You mean where I'm miserable," he counters, inclining his head.

She blinks. "You have a bed there. Food. _Guaranteed_, for the next six years. I can't give you that, Henry. I don't know where my next meal is, or where I'm sleeping tonight. Do you really want to go back onto the streets?"

His face crumbles. "I want to be with you. You want a family, and I do too. Why can't we be each other's?"

Emma opens her mouth, then closes it. A thousand replies hot on her tongue, a thousand reasons she should march him back through those gates and tell the matron to never let him out of her sight again. Then again, they both know the orphanage won't come looking for him; one little boy isn't worth their trouble. And with an adult at his side, no one's going to glance twice.

And selfishly, she likes his company. He makes her happy, which is more than she can say for most people she's met. "Fine," Emma sighs. "You can come with me."

She doesn't even get halfway through her sentence before Henry lets out a whoop, hopping into the air. Emma groans, but grins, wrapping her arm over his shoulder and pulling him into her side. "C'mon kid. Right it is."

* * *

"Where exactly are we going?" Henry whispers, taking large strides to keep up with Emma's quickening pace.

"The woodcarver's," Emma hisses, just barely glancing back over her shoulder.

The sun is low over the village, the last light of day stretched over the thatched rooftops in lazy, golden strokes. Henry had noticed a strange turn in Emma's face as soon as they reached the outskirts of the village, but knew better than to pry. Her lips thin, she had walked into town with clear purpose, her head high. Henry had shuffled behind her, biting back the instinct to prod her with questions.

Clearly, she knew what she was doing, maneuvering the streets and back alleyways with the kind of confidence that meant she'd been there before. Maybe even lived there.

"_Okay_…why are we going to the woodcarver's?" He presses, rushing to keep in line with her.

She eyes him, a small, coy smile tight across her lips. "You want to sleep in the snow tonight?"

"Uh, no?"

"Then follow my lead. This guy owes me a favor, I'll explain later."

They walk a few more minutes, with Emma guiding them towards the back of the village, where there are more houses and less stores. She stops in front of an elaborately carved door, exhaling shakily. She raises her hand to the whale-shaped knocker, but before grasping it, she turns down to Henry, who watches her expectantly. "Let me do the talking." He nods, and she brings the knocker down in a rapid, patterned fashion. Two quick beats, a pause, one slow knock, followed by two more fast ones.

A small slit in the door appears just above the peephole; Henry's surprised he didn't notice it before. A pair of eyes, bright and blue, blinks down at them, followed by a muffled chuckle. The slit closes, a latch is unhooked, and the door swings open to reveal a tall, slightly older young man with dark hair and the beginnings of a beard.

He leans against the door, his arm looped around the back of it, grinning madly. "Aw, look who's all grown up. No duckling left here," he chuckles, raising his eyebrows.

"Save it, Pinhead," Emma says, her voice blank. "Your father home?"

The smile falls from his face. "No, he's working on a commission a few towns over. And it's _Pinocchio_," he sighs. "Not Pinhead. How many times must we go over this, Emma?"

She grins mirthlessly. "You gonna let us in or not?"

Exhaling, he steps back, gesturing them into the house. Shutting the door gently behind them, he nods at Henry. "Who's the kid?"

Emma doesn't even look back, her eyes circling around the room as she sheds her cloak. "A friend."

"I'm Henry," the boy shuffles forward, his hand outstretched. Amused, Pinocchio takes it, returning the greeting and leading them into the kitchen. Emma takes a seat at the table, Henry following in suit, as Pinocchio sets down a few mugs before them.

After they've all had their share of tea and bread, Pinocchio leans against the wall opposite them, watching the two cautiously. "It's been a while, Emma," he says after a moment, his voice careful. "Didn't expect to see you again around here, to be honest."

Emma flicks her gaze to Henry, then back to Pinocchio. "Yeah, well, the orphanage let me go."

"I meant I didn't think you'd want to ever come back here."

Henry's eyes dart up, narrowing at the blonde before him. But he holds his tongue, noticing the way she stiffens and her hand curls around the mug handle defensively. She then shrugs, relaxing a little _too_ much, waving a hand absently. "We're not planning on sticking around. Just resting for the night. We can crash here tonight, yeah?" Pinocchio smiles, as if that were obvious. "Just for the night. And then we're off."

He nods, distracted, and runs his tongue along his teeth, clearly rolling a thought around. After a moment of deliberation, he clears his throat. "You looking for work?"

Emma purses her lips. "What do you know?"

The man hums to himself and glances around, as if gathering his thoughts. "Might've heard something."

Emma flattens her brows. "Well, _obviously_. You gonna share with your favorite jail breaker?"

The glimmer of a smile appears, but he swallows it, scratching his neck. "Yeah, but I don't know if you're gonna want it. It's not exactly legal, strictly speaking." He scrunches up his nose, considering this. "It's not legal in any speaking, actually."

Emma flashes him a wry smile. "Avoid the baboon patrol, got it."

Pinocchio's face is suddenly very grim. "I'm serious, Emma. If the monkeys got a whiff of this…" He trails off, staring pointedly at Henry. Emma glances at the boy, who sits with his fingers laced delicately, his shoulders hunched, wide-eyed and enwrapped in the conversation.

She bites her lip. "Well, what's the job? Does it pay well?"

Pinocchio lets out a bark of laughter, sharp and hollow. "Oh yes. If you pull it off, you'll never have to worry about money ever again. But I can't tell you anything more than I already have—except for who to talk to next, if you're interested. And Emma? This job is for _you_, not the kid. I'm not…well, you'll see."

Emma reaches for Henry's hand across the table. "We'll figure it out. Just stop being so damn cryptic and tell me who to find. It's my specialty, after all."

Pinocchio blows out his breath, smiling softly for a brief moment before it hardens into a thin line. "You need to find a man named Killian. Killian Jones."

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**a/n: so i'm normally terrified of multi chapter and i've never actually been able to finish a long one, but…..i have a good feeling about this. and i kind of want to push myself and see if i can do it. anyway, don't wanna jinx it.**

**as a disclaimer, though this story definitely uses the (film) story of anastasia as a jumping off point….this au is more about "pretending to be the savior" rather than simply "pretending to be the princess". in-text explanations are coming, but i felt it was necessary to bring up now. and yes, this is mega AU—there's no curse, not even the threat of the curse. i'm keeping the characters true to who they are but giving different explanations for how and why they are who they are, basically. **

**no emma/killian interaction yet, but next chapter. this chap has necessary plot developments. anyway, i hope you guys enjoy reading it as much as i've enjoyed writing it!**

**and yes-henry IS pooka. #yolo**

**i don't usually ask for much feedback, but reviews are really encouraging. i'd really appreciate it. xxxxxx**


	3. Red

Emma wakes Henry early the next morning, gently shaking him awake just as the light begins to fill the main room. "C'mon kid," she whispers, "we can't overstay our welcome."

He rises groggily, wiping the sleep from his eyes but nodding. As they gather their things, Pinocchio descends from the grand wood staircase, still in his sleeping gown. He stops at the base of the stairs, leaning back and sighing. "Good luck, Emma."

She pulls back her lips. "Luck is for the lazy."

Pinocchio chuckles. "Fair enough. Where are you off to next?"

Emma pulls her cloak around her shoulders, the red fabric flaring brightly as she whips it over her head. "Off to find this Jones character."

His eyebrows rise. "So you're taking the job then?"

"Haven't felt convinced otherwise." She eyes him sharply as he crosses the room, making way towards the door. "Unless there's something you're not telling me."

He opens the front door, staring out at the winter morning for a brief moment before swiveling his gaze back to Emma and Henry, who now stand at the ready. Pinocchio clucks his tongue. "I may not be known for my honesty, but trust I've told you everything I can." Emma and Henry move to walk past him, but he catches her by the arm before she makes it through the doorframe, smiling ruefully. "I won't lie to you, Emma. This isn't like the old jobs you used to pull. It's not in and then out. You're not finding lost objects or…I don't know, breaking a certain smart-mouthed teenager of jail. The… Look, I can't just push you through the curtain."

The urgency in his voice sending shivers up her spine, Emma watches him, her eyes scanning his for the lies. They're not there—and she can always tell, _especially_ with him. "Why not?"

He fixes her with a strange look, as if it is obvious. "You have to _want_ to walk through it."

* * *

With Pinocchio's ominous advice rattling around in the back of her mind, Emma decides the best place to start looking for Jones is at the Guard Station. That way she can kill two birds with one stone; digging up information while still gauging if he's the criminal she suspects he is. After convincing with Henry that he should wait for her outside, Emma leaves him waiting on the edge of the town fountain, knowing he'll be safest—and least suspicious—in plain sight.

She breaks through the morning market crowd, her head down as she navigates the stalls. It's not entirely like she's _unwelcome_ in Palace City, but before she'd been carted off to the orphanage, she _might have_ had to step on a few toes to survive. A confrontation is the last thing she needs, especially now that she's no longer just responsible for herself.

The Guard Station sits at the back of the market, a gleaming, ridiculously ornate structure. With tall gothic watchtowers and double-breasted doors, the emerald green building is inlaid with bright gold embellishing. It stands loudly, openly mocking the disarray of which the rest of the village has fallen into.

Emma sighs, squinting up at it. This place always makes her uncomfortable—then again, it's meant to.

Pushing one of the doors open, she slips inside. The station is a shuffle of movement all around; the beasts swooping through and around the high ceilings of the buildings, some carrying envelops, scrolls, or packages. Some perch up in the rafters, others amble along the floor or sit at desks. There are a few human workers too, mainly hired as scribes, bearing the standard bright green uniform and the even more standard unpleasant expression.

Beelining for the front desks, Emma side-steps the row of people seated in chairs against the wall. She reaches the desk, breaking out into a warm, docile smile. "Hello," she beams at the small monkey in the green uniform. With burnt-orange fur and massive black eyes, it blinks back at her, unimpressed. "Maybe you can help me."

The monkey clears his throat. "Take a seat, miss."

"Oh, I just have a quick question," she says quickly, sure to turn up the volume on the blonde-and-innocent card. "See—well, this is a bit embarrassing—but I'm trying to track down a man. He owes my family money, said he needed it to start up his metal-smithing business, but—anyway, that's not important. But we haven't heard from him in a couple of weeks, and we're starting to get worried. He seemed very trustworthy, so I'm just wondering if maybe he'd had an accident, or…"

Sighing, the monkey eyes her, clearly rolling the thought around in his head. Pity, or maybe amusement, flashes across his face. _Good_, Emma thinks. "What's his name?"

"Jones. Killian Jones."

She waits for recognition to appear in the monkey's face, but it never comes. Emma reminds herself he's just a desk-worker, probably too low-ranking to know the names of any criminals, even the petty ones.

The monkey hums to himself, rapping his claws along his desk. After a moment of deliberation, he nods towards the waiting area. "Take a seat. I'll be right back."

Thanking him with a bright smile, she walks over to a free chair. Next to her sits an older woman, maybe twenty or so years her senior, with dark brown hair and luminous amber eyes. She too wears a red cloak, but hers has a hood, which she wears up over her head, despite being indoors.

She watches Emma as she makes her way over, openly staring, her eyes narrowed, as if trying to place Emma's face. "Can I help you?" Emma huffs after a moment, because the woman is _still_ staring at her and whatever happened to boundaries anyway?

The woman looks surprised, as if just realizing herself what she'd been doing, and gives her head a little shake. "Sorry. You just look familiar, is all."

Emma scans her expression cautiously, before leaning back into her seat and glancing off. "Yeah, well, I think I have one of those faces." It's not the first time she's caught people looking at her curiously, but she'd always written it off as happenstance. Still, she can't shake the strange feeling that this woman somehow feels familiar too, even though she _knows_ she hasn't met her before.

Emma pulls her necklace out from under her cloak, running her fingers along the golden band of the ring. It's an unconscious habit, one she doesn't often even notice herself doing. She rubs the green ring for a few moments, before once again sensing the woman's gaze on her. Emma growls, preparing to tell her off, but the words die in her throat when she sees what she's staring at. Her amber eyes are glued wolfishly to the ring, wide and almost fearful looking. Her gaze jumps up to Emma's face, and her mouth falls open a little, a wave of recognition washing over her face, as if she truly _does_ know Emma.

The woman opens her mouth to say something, but before she can get a word out, the monkey at the desk calls Emma back over. She rushes out of her seat and towards the desk, the monkey's lips pulled back into a grim line. "Sorry, miss, but we have nothing on file for this Jones fellow. Good luck."

Emma opens her mouth, but the monkey is already turning on his heel, abruptly walking away from her. She stares at his retreating form, blinking rapidly. _That's not suspicious._

After a moment, she swivels and makes for the door, ignoring the calls from the woman in the red hood. "Wait!" She shouts, hastily moving to pick up her things. "Hey, wait!"

She follows Emma all the way outside and down the street, finally managing to lose her at the market. Sighing and relieved, Emma veers down an alley shortcut back to Henry, only for the woman to suddenly materialize in front her, grabbing her by the arm and leading her into the shadows.

"Hey, what gives?" Emma shouts, wriggling to free herself, but the woman's grip is deceptively strong.

"I'm not going to hurt you," she whispers, glancing around. "Look, I overheard you at the front desk."

"Lady, you are creeping me out," Emma snarls, her eyes wide. "Let me go."

To her surprise, the woman does release her. "You're looking for Killian? Killian Jones?"

_Well_. Emma narrows her eyes suspiciously. "Maybe."

"I know where to find him. He's been hiding out in the old palace for a couple of weeks now." The woman is backing up, glancing around to make sure they've gone unheard. "You didn't hear it from me."

Before she can ask why not, the red-hooded woman is gone, slipping off into the market crowd. Exhaling, Emma falls back against the alley wall, her mind reeling.

_Just what is Pinocchio trying to get her into?_

* * *

Henry kicks his feet, positioned on the edge town fountain, his eyes darting around the square. It's relatively populated, many people filtering in and out. They all walk briskly, children in single file. No lingering, no loitering. Here to there. Point A to point B.

In the center watchtower, a baboon sentry sits high over the town square, casually picking at its massive canines with its finger. Henry watches it for a few moments, and then flicks his gaze over the crowd. Keep your head down, or risk jail time—or worse. The monkeys are the highest authority next to the Witch, which means they are allowed to "keep the peace" however they want—a threat that usually doesn't leave much to the imagination.

A blonde head weaves through the crowd, catching his attention. Emma makes her way towards him, her pace steady, and Henry rises to meet her halfway, knowing it's unwise to talk standing still. They're better served to keep moving, especially in the heavily guarded town square.

"Did you find him?" He asks. "Any leads?"

"At first, no," Emma replies, leading him to the other edge of the courtyard and cutting down a side-road. "I went into the Guard Station as planned. Pinocchio was being so damn cryptic, I figured this Jones guy must be either a criminal, or," she drops her voice, casting a quick look around, "a member of the resistance."

Henry's eyebrows shoot up. "So what _did_ you find?"

"Nothing. I told the monkey at the desk he owed my family money and we were trying to track him down, but he couldn't—or wouldn't—give me any information. Which means he either isn't a criminal at all or he _is_ a member of the resistance." They turn down another road, and Henry quickly realizes Emma is leading him out of town. "A lady stopped me as I was leaving the station, said she'd overheard. I'm not supposed to say it was her, but apparently he's been holed up in the old palace for a few weeks. Which is where we're going now."

Henry pauses, letting the information sink in, the wheels spinning in his mind. "If you think he's one of the rebels, why are we still trying to find him?"

Emma freezes, swiveling around to face Henry, who regards her worriedly. She hooks her finger through the ring around her neck, lifting it up for Henry to see.

"Because she only talked to me after she saw this. I'm sure of it," Emma breathes, her voice threatening to shake. She looks away, her gaze finding the old, now slightly-decrepit castle, just barely in sight. She stares at it, furrowing her brow. "This ring is the only thing I have from my past. If it means something, _even_ if it only means something to a bunch of anarchists, I have to know. _I have to_."

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**okay i know i promised emma/killian this chapter and i swear that was the plan, but i started writing it and it felt too forced, without making the chapter really long. which hey, i love it when people post really long chapters, but i'm working my way there.**

**next chapter absolutely emma/killian, plus his POV. please review! i hope you guys are liking this. as i've said, i'm new to multi-chap so encouragement really, really helps motivate me. i don't write for reviews/notes/whatever, but they really do help, seriously.**

**xxxx**


	4. The Castle

"Yes, it's me, Princess Emma!" The girl unsheathes the wooden sword, holding it high over her head. "Prepare to meet your doom!"

She blinks up at the ceiling, and then darts her gaze back down to the table in front of her, breathing heavily, waiting. A heavy silence follows.

One of the men, younger and with inky black hair, digs the edge of his palms into his temples, while the older and fair-haired man next to him clears his throat. "We'll be in touch," the blonde man smiles, gesturing the girl off the stage. She sighs, the sword drooping in her grip, and marches off stage.

"Wait!" The younger man calls. The girl stops just beyond the curtain, leaning back hopefully. "Leave the sword, please."

The wood clangs to the floor loudly, followed by the slamming of a door a few moments later.

"Well, that was a bloody waste of time," he adds, standing and beginning to gather his papers. "She wasn't even blonde. Do you think Red even _thinks_ about who she's sending us beforehand? I told her, I don't want to see any more of her recruits."

"Come off it, Killian," the older man replies, clapping a hand down on his friend's shoulder. "Red does the best she can; it's not easy to find young girls willing to walk face-first into what is somewhat-certain death. Besides, I don't know how many laws you _think_ we're breaking with these auditions, but picture a number higher than your age. It's not like we can just hang a formal poster at the Guard Station."

Killian blows out his breath, the sigh turning into a chuckle halfway. "I know, Robin." He sobers, eyes glazing over in thought as he packs up the rest of their desk. Meanwhile, Robin climbs up onto stage, grasping the wooden play sword by its hilt, dramatically positioning it towards the ceiling.

"We could just find some yellow straw and tie it to your head and call _you_ princess," Killian calls, laughing. "Maybe the witch won't know the difference."

"It's been nine years, after all," Robin smirks, tucking the sword under his arm and hopping down. They walk to the back of the theater and quietly slip out the side-entrance, casting a quick glance about to make sure they're alone.

"Maybe we don't need someone to play the princess," Robin muses a few moments later, after they've begun making their way out of town. "I mean, all we're _really_ paid to do—"

"No," Killian growls over his shoulder, his pace picking up. "No, we have to do this _right_. Don't get lazy on me now mate, not when we're this close." He whirls on his foot suddenly, looking his partner hard in the eye. "We've almost found the girl. Trust me, Robin._ I can feel it_."

Robin laughs under his breath, shaking his head to himself. "I don't understand why this is so important to you. Whatever happened to the hardened young mercenary I met two years ago?"

Killian's expression twists into a scowl. "I resent that, mate. He's still plenty here, I assure you."

"You're getting softer the longer you're out of the game."

"If you want to talk about getting softer, let's discuss that lovely area of your midsection."

"_Now_ you've gone too far," Robin says, subconsciously stroking his stomach. "I'm perfectly in shape."

They've reached the back of the town now, standing before the great wooden wall. Both men begin knocking on it, looking for the hollow spot. Robin finds it first, reaching down and lifting the wooden façade high overhead. The two men slip under it, unaware of the small pair of eyes that track their movements from the rooftop of a nearby building.

A flap of the wings and the creature is gone, flying off in the opposite direction.

* * *

"Let's go through the list again," Robin says, lifting his mug to his lips. He stares into the fire, frowning to himself.

Across the parlor and draped in a large armchair, Killian suddenly looks like he's swallowed something very uncomfortable. He glances off. "None of those girls were right. We need to keep looking for her."

"We're running out of time. The princess would be eighteen this year—the year the prophecy states she'll rise again. Actually," Robin muses, turning to face Killian, "it would've been her birthday today. Or yesterday, I can't quite recall. My point is…be _reasonable_, Killian, we do have a deadline. Let me see the list."

With a quite burdened sigh, Killian untangles his limbs and wanders over to the writing desk. He searches through the small pile of papers, pulling out the most crinkled one, as if it'd been rolled into a ball several times over. He hands it to his partner, joining him at the fireplace. His elbow perches over the mantle and his fingers dug into his scalp, looking pained.

"Ah, okay, what about Anna, Killian? The one from last week…she was blonde, Anna almost sounds like Emma…"

"She could barely lift the bloody wooden sword," Killian growls, his frustration already taking over. "How do you think she'd fare in a real battle? With a real sword?"

"Training the girl was always part of the plan," Robin argues, wrinkling his brow.

"We're talking about someone's _life_ here, mate. That's why we have to be selective. We need a fighter, not just someone who looks the part. You've trained a whole band of amateurs, Robin. In your professional opinion, do you really think _she'd_ be fit for war?"

"If we gave her a bow—well, no, I suppose not." Robin exhales, and shakes his head. He rescans the list. "Okay, you want a fighter, how about—"

A loud clang suddenly fills the room, the unmistakable sound of glass hitting the floor.

Robin and Killian exchange glances, eyes wide. "Someone's here," Killian whispers, and both men rush to the door.

* * *

Grabbing their weapons on the way out, the two break for the ballroom, following the voices echoing through the halls. They flatten their backs against the corner wall and tune their ears, listening.

"Henry, what was that?"

"I don't know, I just touched it for a second!"

_Henry_? Killian mouths, glancing at Robin, who shrugs in response. "Sounds like a mother and her kid," he whispers. "Squatters, probably."

"Well, let's go be neighborly," Robin whispers back, looking rueful.

The two round the bend, moving much more leisurely now. Two figures stand at the other end of the ballroom floor, arguing next to a banquet table and a small pile of pottery shards. "Oi!" Killian calls, pointing the sword down at the two. He begins to descend the stairs, Robin close behind him, his quiver drawn and aimed. "Stay where you are!"

They freeze for a moment, before the taller figure pushes the smaller one behind her and reaches for the candelabra on the table. She braces the handle firmly, holding it like she would a sword, clearly bracing herself for a fight.

Killian's brows fly up, returning his sword to its holster. He holds up his hands defensively as she swings the candelabra defensively. "Whoa there lass, I'm not about to—" Now close enough to see her face clearly, the words die in his throat. He swallows, blinking as he takes her in—high, regal cheekbones, bright green eyes, and a full head of long white-blonde tresses, spilling over her shoulders like golden rain. She watches him carefully, her whole body tense, like a feral creature, wild and beautiful.

And wholly, painfully, achingly _familiar_.

"Don't come any closer," she snarls, but her expression calms somewhat after a moment. "Are you Jones? Killian Jones?"

Killian glances over his shoulder, signaling for Robin to loosen his bow. He chuckles darkly, returning his attention to the young woman before him. "That depends on who's asking. If it's you, love, sure, why not, I'll be Killian."

"I'm not here to flirt," she replies, but stands a little straighter. "But I _am_ here to talk to this Jones character, so if neither of you are him, we'll be on our way."

She turns on her heel, ushering the small boy out in front of her.

Killian rotates his neck to the side, grinning at Robin. "Who does she look like to you?" He whispers, once the girl is out of earshot.

"A fighter," Robin whispers back excitedly.

"Precisely," Killian replies, then raises his voice just as she makes it to the door, "Wait, wait! Come back. I was only joking, lass. I am Killian Jones."

She pivots, eyes narrowed sharply. "You are?" Her hand flies to her collarbone, fiddling with a small necklace. She plays with it for a moment before slipping it under her clothing and stepping forward.

"Aye," he replies, "that I am. And you are?"

"Emma," she says, after a quick deliberation.

The two men exchange glances. "_Really_," Killian drawls, his eyebrows at his hairline. "That's the name of the princess, you know."

She appears unimpressed. "Guess so. It's popular for girls my age for a reason."

His grin grows. "So, _Emma_, what brings you to my humble abode?"

She arches a lone brow. "Humble abode? You live in a castle."

"Ah, but an _abandoned_ one, darling. Probably haunted, too, just my luck."

"This was a waste of time," she sighs, rolling her eyes. "Come on Henry, let's go."

His hand reaches out to stop her, hovering just over her arm, barely brushing the fabric. "Wait, come now lass, don't be rash. Tell me why you're looking for me."

She stops, gaze lingering on his hand before slowly trailing up his arm and neck. By the time she makes it to his eyes, he actually shudders under her scrutiny. _Shudders_. _Who the hell is this girl?_

"A friend told me you were looking to hire."

Robin steps forward, hands on his hips. "A friend?"

"A guy named Pinocchio," she explains, watching as the two men exchange a look that can only say "_that_ _figures"_.

"Well, yes, your friend is correct—but, ah, what…exactly…did he say was the position we were looking to fill?" Killian asks, lacing his hands behind his back.

She shrugs, glancing at Henry, who returns the gesture. "Wouldn't say, though he did imply you're not exactly above the table."

"While apt," Killian says, a mirthless grin breaking across his face, "he did leave out a few details, love. See, we…we were hired to find Princess Emma and reunite her with her family."

Whatever she'd been expecting, it definitely wasn't _that_.

She blinks, surprised, noting the curious way the archer glances at his partner out of the corner of his eye. "You're lying."

Killian knocks his head back, the left corner of his lips lifting into a lopsided smirk. "Am I?"

Emma narrows her eyes, matching his smirk. Even if it's not quite a smile, his heart _does_ give a little skip. It happens so quickly, he barely notices. "Little secret, Jones—I'm pretty good at knowing when someone is lying to me. And you are."

He considers her for a moment, his grin growing. "Fair enough. But it wasn't a lie, not entirely. We _are_ looking for Princess Emma, and we _were_ paid to free the king and queen…"

"We're just not looking for…a birth certificate, for example," Robin supplies, grinning apologetically.

Emma's mouth falls open, glancing between the two men. "Wait, wait. Let me get this straight—you're looking for someone to _pretend_ to be the lost princess…so that you can free the king and queen, and…what, go start a _war_ against the Witch?" She shakes her head, backing away. "I knew you guys were rebels, but—"

"We're not really rebels," Robin interrupts.

"More like...conmen, or that's what our wanted posters say. Personally, I'd go with mercenaries," Killian says.

"With _honor_," Robin adds, holding up a finger.

"You're with _something_ alright," Emma spits, reaching for Henry's hand. "C'mon kid, we're getting out of here."

"There was a prophecy!" Killian calls to Emma's retreating figure. She freezes, her grip briefly tightening around Henry's hand before releasing it. She spins around, hair flying around her shoulders. Her face is still full of suspicion, but at least she's listening. "Told after the Witch captured the king and queen, that on the princess's eighteenth year, she would return. And when she did, she would vanquish the witch, free her parents, and unite the kingdoms once again. She would be a Savior."

For a long moment, Emma is silent, her expression stony and controlled. "Then go find _her_."

"It's not like people haven't tried, Emma," Robin explains. "Locator spells, search parties, all kinds of enchantments, you name it. Nothing. She's disappeared."

Killian's hands ball at his sides, his patience suddenly thin. "The point is—she would be eighteen this year, but they're worried the prophecy was wrong."

"It happens," Robin supplies.

"The rebels are getting restless, which is where we come in. We were hired to find the 'princess' so they could start rallying support. And the witch is still fearful of of the prophecy anyway. All we have to do is get her to see you, and we'll take care of the rest."

"Basically, you want me to be bait," Emma says bluntly, crossing her arms.

"And you'll be paid handsomely for it," Robin replies, smiling.

"We'll protect you," Killian adds. His voice is suddenly gravely serious, eyes searing into hers. Gooseflesh dances up her arms, and she hugs them close, running her hands over her skin.

She frowns, considering her words. "I don't need protecting. Henry will, though."

The two men blink, and exchange looks. "The kid can't come, Emma."

Emma shrugs, nonplussed, and reaches for Henry, pulling him against her side. "We're a package deal. We're a family, and that means we stick together."

"You realize how risky that is," Robin says carefully, looking the boy over.

"Not to mention bloody _moronic_, love. This isn't a leisure trip, it's dangerous."

"Fine," Emma says, "then find someone else to play dress up."

"But Emma—" Henry starts, looking up at her.

"_Or_," she interrupts, "you could pay me a full third, _not_ the percent you were going to try to get away with, protect Henry, and I'll pretend to be your precious savior." She shrugs, waving a hand flippantly. "Your choice."

Killian lets out a bark of laughter, rubbing at his chin. Casually, he dips his shoulder down, so he can get a better look at his partner. "That work for you, Robin?"

Robin is pinching his brow and looking down, but smiling nonetheless. "That works for me, Killian."

"Great," Emma says dryly. A hint of a smile appears at the corner of her lips. "Savior it is."

* * *

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**hiii**

**obviously this is the clear break from the original story i talked about in a previous a/n. i just figured there was no way, _at this point_, a stranger could convince our hardened lil baby emma that she was actually a lost princess who needed to magically defeat an evil witch. but one could convince her to pull a fabulously badass con. anyway- it wouldn't be much fun if you guys knew the whole story already, right? there are more surprises down the road. **

**so what happens next? stay tuned. **

**_please_ review! **


	5. Conmen vs Mercenaries

It only takes the men about an hour to pack up their belongings. Robin suggests Henry and Emma entertain themselves by exploring the castle, but when Robin and Killian return, they find the two exactly where they'd left them.

"This place gives me a headache," is the only explanation Emma will give. Next to her, Henry eyes the men's packs.

"That's all you're bringing?" He asks.

Killian mumbles something about not being sentimental, and the four of them are out, crossing the great stone bridge that was once perhaps magnificent.

Much like the rest of the castle, it has fallen mostly into ruin. Prominent thorns and tangled ivy branches dance across the stones, hiding whatever splendor was once displayed in the masonry.

"So, are you gonna tell us where we're going?" Emma asks once they reach the outer gate.

Killian and Robin exchange glances. "Well," Robin starts.

"We're going to rescue the king and queen," Killian interrupts, as if it were obvious. "Honestly love, we've been over this."

"Yeah, I remember that part," Emma replies dryly. "But where are they? Or were you not planning on telling me?"

"We were," Robin says, "we are. It's just…information is on a need-to-know basis."

Emma crosses her arms. "And I don't deserve to know? Am I your fake-Savior or not?"

"Think of it this way, love," Killian says, stepping forward. "Let's say, hypothetically, our carriage is pulled over by the baboons."

"Oh," Emma muses to Henry, "that's why we're walking. Our carriage was pulled over."

Killian tries to scowl, but all that comes out is a grin. Next to him, Robin snorts. "I said this was hypothetical, keep up. Anyway, we're pulled over. We're brought in for questioning. You and the lad are brought in for questioning. The less you know, the safer you are. Trust me; things will be a lot smoother if you do."

"You should be used to people not trusting you," Emma snorts, her voice even. "Given the whole…conman thing."

"Mercenary," Killian corrects tightly.

Emma rolls her eyes, but deliberates her thoughts, glancing at Henry. "Okay, but what if something happens, and I'm unprepared because no one told me about it?"

"If something important comes up, or something changes, we'll tell you," Robin says, and Killian nods. "You have our word."

"This is the safest part of the journey as well," the black-haired man adds, eying the forest around them. "And before we get much farther, I think Robin and I should evaluate your combat skills."

"Me fighting wasn't part of the deal," Emma says warily.

"You're the one going on about being unprepared," Killian points out. Emma considers this, nodding. "We'll split up so we have space to practice. Emma, you come with me, and Henry with Robin."

Emma glances between all three of them, and lifts her chin into the air. "I'd rather go with Robin, to be honest."

"Flattered as I am," Robin says, and he truly seems to mean it, "I don't necessarily think giving the twelve year old a broadsword lesson is wise. Archery is a better place to start him out."

"Hey," Henry interjects, ostensibly offended. Emma looks at him, struggling to find a reason to disagree with Robin. Henry didn't have the streets upbringing she did—he really should be starting out on knives like she did, but he's least likely to hurt himself with an arrow.

"Fine," Emma sighs after a moment, sneering at Killian, who is grinning at her brightly. "Don't look so excited."

"I can't wait to see how you handle a sword, is all," Killian replies, batting his eyelashes with mock innocence despite the fact that his tone is dripping with implication.

Robin shoves him in the arm and tuts disapprovingly. He turns to apologize to Emma on his partner's behalf, but she's already striding off into the forest, her back to them. "Killian," Robin warns lowly. "Be smart about this. We spend months looking for a girl—we can't lose her because you've made too many advances, or led her on. Feelings can be a liability."

Killian is watching her go, his lips tight and brow knotted. He looks to his friend, his face clearing when he sees the concern etched into his features. "Oh relax, mate," he says, patting him on the shoulder, "I'll play nice."

He trots off after Emma, calling for her to wait up. Robin observes him for a moment, and lets out the breath he didn't know he'd been holding. "That's what I'm afraid of."

* * *

"No, no, stop—just stop, love," Killian sighs, rubbing his hand down his face. "Please, I'm insulted just watching you."

The sword falls limp in her grip, hitting the snow with a gentle thump. Her face hardens, scowling at him. "Don't be so dramatic," she snaps, "I'm not that bad."

"No, you're not that bad," Killian agrees, rising from his seat atop the rock and starting towards her. "But you offend your own potential, wielding the sword like that. It's not a bloody stick! Back at the castle, you held that candelabra with more grace than this."

Anyone else might've flinched.

After a moment of staring at the sword in her hand, she flicks her gaze back to him, face softening. "I'm used to fighting with a knife."

"Aye," he nods, grinning at her in a way that makes her stomach clench. It's almost…admiring. "I can tell. A knife requires agility, but it relies more on the elbow than the wrist, unlike the sword. You must think of it as an extension of your own hand or arm. Here lass, watch me." He draws his own blade and begins to parry, shuffling forward and back, his wrist moving in circular motions as he swings the sword. It's fluid and seemingly effortless, the weapon extended out as if it weighs nothing.

After a minute, he relaxes, digging his blade into the snow and leaning on it. "You see the difference?"

Wishing nothing more than to find him repulsive but only coming up with respect, Emma huffs noncommittally and glances off.

"To be fair," Killian adds, smirking at her, "I've been trained by a true master swordsman—a wizard with the blade, if he's using his right hand."

She arches a brow. "Here I didn't think conmen trained with masters. Or wizards," Emma says, her voice cool.

A strange look passes over his face. "I told you, love, I'm not a bloody conman. I'm a mercenary—a blade for hire. Of which would be rather difficult if I proved to be a lousy swordsman."

"You keep correcting me," Emma says, pursing her lips, "how is being a mercenary so much better than being a conman?"

"Simple. A conman will trick you, I'll just kill you."

Groaning, Emma throws up her hands and rolls her eyes to the sky.

"Meaning," Killian asserts, his tone terse, "a conman will lure you into false security and then stab you in the back. Me, when I show up, you know what's going to happen. I make my intentions clear. It's an honorable death. Usually for someone who hasn't lived a very honorable life."

At the mention of conmen, Emma stiffens, her face closed off to his inspection. He quirks a brow, noting the way she bristles. "This is a real thing for you," she says finally, her voice cool, "this honor stuff."

"I might not have much," Killian replies, his tone equally clipped, "but I do have my code."

He shifts his weight off the weapon, moving around her, his arm hovering over hers before gingerly brushing against it. Though she'd never acknowledge it, his touch sends gooseflesh up her skin even through their layers of clothing.

"Hold it like this," he murmurs, his voice suddenly very low as he lifts her arm and re-positions her fingers along its hilt. She turns her neck to look at him, prepared to tell him off, but instead finds herself relieved he looks just as dazed as she feels.

_Wait, what?_

"Got it," she snaps, shedding the feeling.

His lips twitching, Killian holds up his hands and steps back. After a few practice swings with the readjusted grip, he flashes her an approving smile and nod. "That ought to be enough for today," he says, "and we best be turning back to camp and checking in on our mates—and see how Henry likes his archery lessons."

"I'm sure he's having a blast," Emma says, returning the blade to its sheath. "It's Robin I'd be thinking of. I wouldn't, uh, call tact Henry's strong suit."

Killian grins. "He gets that from you, then."

"He's not actually my brother," Emma replies flatly, rolling her eyes.

"I gleaned that, yes," Killian murmurs, and after a moment adds, "but that doesn't make him any less your family." (He says it so lowly she debates whether she was meant to hear it.)

Tilting her head, she fixes him with a curious look, but doesn't comment. They've still got at least a ten minute walk ahead of them, Killian having insisted on finding the perfect clearing to practice in.

"Well, where is this master swordsman?" Emma asks, not-so-deftly trying to dodge the subject of family. If Killian notices, he doesn't say anything. "Maybe we can find him, and he can teach me. I'm sure he'll do loads better than you."

It's definitely not in her nature to tease, but the quip is worth it for the look on Killian's face. He sneers openly, and she grins. "Oi, how lucky am I to be graced with the presence of beauty _and_ wit," he replies, waving a hand dismissively. "Anyway, love, if you want to find my master, we're going the wrong way."

"Meaning?"

"Have you ever heard of the Dread Pirate Roberts?"

Emma snorts, glancing over at him. "I'm not even a little bit surprised. An ancient pirate myth. Good one, Jones."

He scowls. "He's not a myth."

She rounds on him, raising a dubious eyebrow. "No? Rumor has it he's been sailing for close to a century now. How is that even possible? What, are you gonna tell me he's immortal, as well as being a wizard swordsman?"

"Inigo—" Killian starts, then pauses, considering his words, "The original Dread Pirate Roberts has been retired going on twenty, twenty-five years. Chance that, he might have passed, but that's in the semantics, love. Point is, my master—a named named Inigo Montoya—inherited the Revenge from a man named Westley, who also sailed under the name Dread Pirate Roberts. Westley received the ship from a pirate named Kyle, who got it from a man named Cumberbatch, who got it from Clooney, the first mate to the original captain."

"What's the point in that?" Emma asks, wrinkling her nose. "Why pass on the name?"

He grins at her. "Reputation is everything. You recognized his name, did you not? And you're not even a sailor."

For a long moment, Emma is silent, watching him carefully. She knows he isn't lying, but that's not what's gnawing at her. "So how did _you_ end up on the pirate ship?"

His face darkens suddenly, quiet anger rippling across his face. It seems to be directed at a memory rather than her, but it still sends shock waves up her spine—she's never seen him look quite so enraged.

It's in this moment that Emma realizes she doesn't know Killian Jones at all. She'd been so caught up in their teasing and squabbling that their relationship had felt incredibly natural. She had forgotten she'd technically only met him that morning, and can't help but feel guilty that she'd clearly opened an old wound.

Killian sighs noisily, and glances off. "That's a story for another day, lass." A grin stretches across his face, but it doesn't even come close to meeting his eyes. "We're approaching camp now, anyway, and I can't give way all my secrets to you right away. How else will I keep your attention?"

She knows what he's trying to do; he wants to lighten the mood, return to their established banter. Releasing her questions into an exhaled breath, Emma rolls her eyes. "I'm sure you'll think of something."

He positively lights up, grinning at her with an open joy. She stares at him for a moment, her expression closed and her heart hammering, before turning sharply on her heel and wordlessly walking away.

He follows her, but not quite as closely as before. When they reach the camp, it's empty save the sounds of Henry's whooping and laughter. She turns to say something to Killian, but before she even gets halfway around, he shouts, "Duck!" and the wind is being knocked out of her. Killian's weight falls onto her and pushes her to the ground with a heavy thud.

Killian grunts on top of her, pushing himself up onto his elbows.

"What the _hell_," she spits venomously, glaring up at him, "was that for?"

A soft smile is crossing his features as he gingerly moves to brush her hair out of her eyes. "Protecting you," he says lowly.

For a moment, Emma is paralyzed, unprepared for the gentleness of the look he is giving her, so unlike the smirks she's already gotten used to. "I thought you said this was the safest part of the journey," she mumbles, flattening her palms against his chest and rolling him off her.

"Yes, well, I wasn't the one who gave arrows to a twelve year old," Killian sighs, propping himself up on one hand. Brushing off her trousers, Emma rises from the ground just in time to see Henry and Robin racing towards them.

"I didn't hit you, did I Emma?" Henry cries, rushing up to her. "I'm sorry, I thought the clearing was empty, and I—"

Whatever remnant of anger she had immediately fizzles away. "I'm fine, kid," Emma breathes, reaching out to ruffle his hair. "Not a scratch on me."

"You're _welcome_," Killian grunts, jumping to his feet.

"I swear, he was doing excellent shooting before," Robin says, smiling at the boy. Henry beams. "A real natural."

"Funny," Killian says, glancing at the blonde. "I'd say the same of Emma."

She turns to look at him, taken aback—it's the first outright compliment he's given her, but the way he says it, so easily and offhandedly, is what truly surprises her. Her shock turns quickly to suspicion, assuming he's playing her. He catches her gaze and frowns, as if reading her thoughts.

"Henry and I nabbed dinner, as well," Robin says loudly, his eyes darting between the two curiously. "We'd better eat and get some rest, we have a big day ahead tomorrow."

"No chance you'd tell us what that includes, right?" Henry asks, as Emma nestles him into her side.

Robin and Killian exchange glances. Finally, Robin clears his throat. "We're going to see a man about a hat."

* * *

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**this was such a dialogue heavy chapter, but i always get carried away with banter. next chapter will have more action in it! i hopefully raised some questions for you guys, ones you might know the answer to, just not in the way you might think. i actually genuinely think i might be able to finish this story, so i'm excited about that.**

**tralalala stay tuned. reviews would be appreciated!**


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